


by chance we find a question answered sweetly

by faorism



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deadlock Jesse McCree, Developing Relationship, Fingerfucking, Flirting, M/M, Medical Device, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot/Human Relationships, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: Jesse remembers what it feels like to be small and vulnerable and delicate with BOB sitting on the edge of his bed.
Relationships: B.O.B./Jesse McCree
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	by chance we find a question answered sweetly

**Author's Note:**

> this fiction is a chapter taken out of [hot oil spit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385004), which is a super long mchanzo fic which you do not need to read to enjoy this fic. in fact, if you plan on reading _hot oil_ , i suggest you don't read this ahead of time (although there isn't any real spoilers here). i wrote this very indulgent BOB/jesse scene and decided to take it out of context (with some editing) for people who just want to read mcbob. 
> 
> probably helpful to know i used [this image as a reference](https://improveyourdrawings.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/knight-7-parts-e1535562079996.jpg) as to what the fuck to call parts of BOB's body. fyi there is use of a device that most people encounter in medical situations that is used here as a sex toy. i choose not to say this is a warning because given the circumstances, it is used as an accessibility tool to account for body variation.

Jesse's on a pretty good run when he hears BOB's signature loud clanging enter the Cave of Mysteries dance hall. He doesn't freeze, so used to the flow of bullet hell strikes his hands glide over the buttons and joystick with practiced skill. His vivid purple rocket twirls around an endless barrage of cool tone colors on a field of starry black space. Blue crossing teal crossing aquamarine crossing sunbleached astroturf drag across the monitor as unseen enemies barrage his avatar. Again and again and again and again he escapes. Quick maneuvers and strategic retaliation. Automatic reflexes, mindless reactions, and the calm of compartmentalization… BOB grows closer. Stops behind Jesse. 

The game hums out a chiptune beat that is close enough on beat to whatever top ten dance hit the deejay's got playing, so close that Jesse's body sways in a hypnotic rhythm of movement. He continues to play well—swinging on the balls of his feet as he executes risky play after riskier play. Jesse does well but not spectacularly, at least by his own standards. 

(BOB hasn't moved away.)

Jesse isn't sure why he's even playing this game. He doesn't like it much—and there were better mode selections on the machine. Like, he's placed on the leaderboards for this game but that was after grinding for a couple days. The movement makes him nauseous when he stares at it too long, especially when he's a couple beers in. 

He's already played this for… five(?) rounds tonight. But the music is good, and the eye strain seems to fade to oblivion after a while— 

Bad RNG: an inescapable hail of angry lime corners the rocket against a second spray of violet. His rocket explores in a flurry of magenta sparks. The end.

Fists curl over the controls but there's no need to further delay the inevitable, so Jesse glances up and over his shoulder. BOB's huge chassis blocks most of Mysteries from view. Shadow cast menacingly over Jesse, BOB's optics flick over Jesse's face—acid green on Jesse's brown. 

"Here for Ashe?" Jesse says, voice thin and expectant. He was pretty sure he hadn't fucked up lately—no reason for a sudden visit. There's emergency missions, of course, but usually he would get a ping on his comm not a personal fetching. 

But BOB doesn't nod or simply walk away, signaling to follow. He stares and, with the slightest of slight twists, BOB shakes his head no. 

Huh.

"Y'sure?

Blinks. 

"Positive?"

BOB doesn't dignify that with a response beyond a squint.

This… this here is unexpected. Jesse's been holding his breath for a summons, and a summons specifically from BOB because if he knows anything about Ashe, he knows Calamity sure loves to pit BOB's intimidating hulk against her prey. To not be called was definitely welcome, but it ain't what Jesse expects. 

"Any kind of… official business?"

It only connects, then, at BOB's dead stare. Jesse feels dumb and paranoid and silly for his suspicions, but he ain't guilty at his assumption. Better safe than sorry with matters concerning Deadlock. Jesse turns all the way round. Leans against the cabinet, elbows on the control panel, body language slipping from cautious to curious in two winks. He builds to an encore for a performance he knows all too well. 

"Oh, shucks. Are you here for yourself, big boy?" 

Jesse knows the answer but it's important he gets the consent uttered, which BOB knows Jesse needs from him. So only now does BOB raise a hand for a quick sign. «Yes.» His blocky digits are barely able to make the sign legible, but Jesse knows how to read him. 

(Jesse figures it polite, to try and communicate. Necessary. Humane. Not a lot of people take the time to learn how to read BOB, and BOB doesn't break his silence for just anyone. So while not his intention when he first started trying to chat BOB up, Jesse's attention is why things have come to allow for this kind of… opportunity between them.)

"Well, well," Jesse purrs, ridiculous but too mellowed out from the burst of fearful adrenaline to wring up the energy to sound more excited. He wasn't planning on picking anyone up tonight but if BOB's offering… "Ain't this something." 

BOB is feeling talkative today so he goes for another sign; it's one from the cache taught upon Deadlock entry so he doesn't have to spell it out for Jesse: «Allies?» 

Jesse easily gets BOB's meaning. "Nah, my friends ain't around. Just me tonight so we can bail whenever you're liking." 

BOB must be liking now because he knocks his head toward the exit. 

Jesse touches the metal seam of BOB's wrist—a touch light and delicate. Precious, because that's how he knows BOB likes him. 

(Jesse likes it too, if only for the novelty.)

"Lead the way, sweetheart."

BOB doesn't reply. Just lumbers away, not needing to check to know Jesse will follow him.

  
  


—

  
  


No one questions Deadlock's rising star of an enforcer going on a midnight stroll with the bosslady's lap dog. It's late, so there ain't much folks topside anyway on this still evening. Very still—not a lick of wind, so the only dust clinging to Jesse's boots is what he himself kicks up. BOB's sensors brighten the sand like a green mist curling around their feet.

They make the turn to Deadlock housing—silent excepting their steps and the slip of rocks shifting under their heels.

  
  


—

  
  


Jesse remembers what it feels like to be small and vulnerable and delicate with BOB sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress sinks beneath his weight, springs pushed down to their limit. The only reason the frame keeps is that Jesse requested a higher quality accommodation after their first fun but destructive night together. (Jesse suspects that BOB not only rubber stamped the order but expedited it, the old dog.) The sheer breadth of his presence overwhelms the small studio, and with BOB's knees held apart wide enough for Jesse to step between, Jesse knows where he belongs—it's the only place he fits. 

He slots in where he's called to stand.

Jesse knows to not go for the mouth facsimile on BOB's faceplate—no sensors there, despite the inviting form. It's a fact that Jesse has to adjust to quickly as he feels one giant hand cup against the top half of his back. Jesse takes a breath, swallows down his impulses, and remembers. Remembers that BOB's an old model, so old he ain't even have a number sequence in his name. Them early butler bots were built for butlering, so why design them with full sensation, expression, utterance, and pleasure processing? Fuck 'em, right? 

(Ashe can order these real easy standard upgrades for BOB, but she doesn't include these installations during his tuneups. She likely never will.)

BOB is different, Jesse reminds himself as he pushes open BOB's vest. Jesse knows there's intelligence and capacity to care in BOB's noggin, and Jesse knows so much about BOB's chassis that he can probably do some minor repairs at this point if need be. But claiming Jesse's got a handle on BOB's personality would be stretching it. BOB's devoted and nice and attentive and he's got a tick of good-humored sarcasm to him. He's a good soul. 

But beyond that? An enigma wrapped up in a ton of bolts. Maybe that's the way BOB likes it. It's definitely what Ashe would want, Jesse suspects, especially from her bodyguard. Can't have her toy too far out her clutches. 

So BOB sticks to his silence and his occasional signs and hazy nights when curiosity to be handled intimately begs him into Jesse's room. He doesn't undress, he brings his own supplies, and there's also a way he's just so… detached in a haunting but obsessively hot way that boils Jesse's blood. He's the most robotic omnic Jesse thinks he'll likely ever sleep with and that's kinda thrilling and alien, but like everything else, like with everyone else, in the end, Jesse finds out how to please. And he does it because he knows how, and he is so fucking sure that BOB is here with him for the same reason all the others seek out Jesse or accept his overtures.

Because Jesse fights the urge to kiss that handsome gentlemanly face. Resists stroking the broad sweeps of those stately mutton chops. 

Instead, Jesse dips to BOB's cuirass, the three lights blaring green at the middle of BOB's chest. Underneath, the quantum "heart" of the omnic—his core—thrums energy and curiosity throughout BOB's frame. Jesse tongues the metal tasting steel and sand and the silky vibration of all that keeps BOB going. BOB is warm against his lips as Jesse finds a familiar path between BOB's sensors, occasionally aiming his kisses higher so he can motorboat the impressive slats of BOB's tits. They're just so fucking big and exposed and _there_ and Jesse can't held himself: he reaches up to the chestplate, running his palms wide and flat against it. Groping. Nails digging into gaps, trying (and obviously failing) to seek entrance into the delicate wires the exoshell so diligently guards. 

He's eaten guys out with less attention than he's giving to the cuirass, Jesse thinks as he licks and licks at the sensitive spot, drinking up his own spit as it slowly collects in crevices. 

Components flutter throughout BOB's body as metallic mutterings of temptation. BOB's fingers may be too unsubtle for easy reading of his ASL, but they are certainly delicate enough to undress Jesse who thrills in the whisper of his clothes moving against his skin. BOB pushes it all off without tearing anything: it's wild to think of how much money and big brain smarts musta gone into the ludicrously unnecessary task of BOB unbuttoning his cuff. A good investment, Jesse figures, as he kicks off his boots so BOB can divest him of his pants and briefs. 

Jesse's dick's chubbed out but not yet committed to being hard. He at least is doing something right by BOB, judging by how enthusiastically BOB's fingers massage into Jesse's ass and the back of his thighs. Petting. Urging. 

As one passes over his cleft, Jesse jolts remembering how thick it is. How good one will feel stretching him. The stiffness. The heat of his own body refracted back to him from the metal's surface. The threat of the other fingers curled around him—Jesse won't offer to take a second one since he's already wary about the risk of sharp edges with just the one, but fuck will he daydream about it. Breached wide and gaping. Better than fists, maybe—a force so immovable and indestructible inside him, trapping Jesse to their existence without room for thought beyond unforgiving metal. Jesse's mouth waters with want at the sense-image, which he slobbers onto BOB only to clean him right back up again.

Jesse wants more. Needs more. Wants everything BOB can and will give him. "Gotta open me up," Jesse whines as he breaks away from the cuirass. BOB's optic apertures narrow as he focuses on Jesse's face. On his desperation. Jesse reaches to BOB's right rerebrace, just above his elbow joint. There holds a thick knot of cables and even more sensors which Jesse giddily slips his fingers into and against. "Please, babe, I need it." 

BOB nods. To not disrupt where Jesse's now devotedly fondling the rerebrace, BOB reaches beside him on the bed with his left hand. Jesse moans as he hears familiar clicks and snaps, knowing what BOB's preparing for him. He goes back to giving love to the mound of the cuirass to show his appreciation. 

The tongue fucking doesn't last long: with only a pause of his cupped hand over Jesse's thighs, BOB hefts Jesse up onehanded in the cradle of his palm. Jesse moans at being manhandled so thoroughly, even if BOB is so careful about it. Despite BOB's gentleness, Jesse shamelessly exaggerates the effect of being moved. He clutches BOB's gorget to gain his balance as he settles his knees on BOB's thighs. With some maneuvering, Jesse gets his dick against the cuirass which shines it with its glow. Jesse distracts himself from his illuminated green cock with those vibrations from deep within. Light like a tease. Perfect. 

Speaking of teasing—

Two fingers part Jesse's ass, exposing him. Against his hole presses a wet, small bulb. Jesse curses; he asked for this, and yet now that it's presented to him, he drowns in erotics of the _fuck fuck is that actually going in?_ and _fuck fuck fuck me with that yes_. BOB uses his free hand to comfortingly pet Jesse's arm as he slips the device in.

Jesse shakes as BOB tests him—pulling out a half inch before sinking back in. That would be good if it were a plug, but this familiar intrusion promised more. It meant… 

"Oh, god!" 

BOB dilates the speculum about three whole notches without warning before quickly clamping its silicone-encased wings back down to neutral. 

Jesse twitches against BOB in shock. The bastard goes back to lightly fucking him with it, fluttering in small measures possible only through the USB cord connecting the omnic-made speculum and a port hidden within BOB's wrist. Jesse doesn't know quite how precise the device controls, but it fucking feels like BOB is moving up by atoms by how slowly he's fucking Jesse open. At least it's given Jesse's cock time to catch up to proceedings; it's gone from flushed to turgid thick and smearing precome on BOB's curiass and plackart. 

A longtime fan of phallic objects—whether flesh, metal, or silicone—and the solid grounding intrusion they provide, something about the speculum's prongs being hollow fucks Jesse up. Jesse's sure that he can feel the slip of lube when BOB squeezes a bit more into the device to help ease it along. With a human partner, Jesse'ld have asked them to blow in it to see if he could confirm how wide they held him. With BOB, Jesse just thrills off knowing how much wider the prongs need to get before he can take just one finger.

While cruel in prepping him, BOB takes mercy on Jesse by squirting lube onto Jesse's dick. Jesse can cry at how grateful it was to curl a palm around himself and jerk it. 

But he doesn't let that joy stagnant: he clumsily climbs up BOB's frame, practically standing on BOB's lap, to fit his dick in the slot between BOB's tits. Jesse's hand and BOB's ministrations were doing most of the work of arousing Jesse, but—fuck, the sight of it… 

Jesse's distracted enough he doesn't fully notice BOB's signal that he's ramping up until the moment Jesse feels that there is something definitely whole filling the speculum's hollow space. It's only when the device shifts awkwardly and pinches the rim that Jesse realizes what has changed. He hears the pop of the speculum disengaging. It's a complicated movement that requires a clever flick of the wrist on BOB's part, but once done, it's easy to slip the prongs out and leave the prize tucked securely behind. 

BOB's massive thumb rests deep in Jesse. Jesse can't breathe. He can't move. He can't speak. 

BOB takes over. Props Jesse up against him, getting Jesse to sit his weight back on the very hand that's in him. Gently—so fucking gentle—BOB fucks Jesse by half inches. 

Blood roars in Jesse's ears. The intrusion in Jesse's ass finds his prostate and teases it. Jesse moans a bittersweet lullaby as he chases the wickedness of unforgiving metal inside him. He sinks down back onto his knees on BOB's lap, barely able to keep upright with how violently he's thrusting into BOB's plackart. Twitching and moaning. Filled and held. It's slow and weird and kinda dangerous and mostly erotic to the point of tears. And Jesse wants it. Wants whatever BOB can give him. Wants whatever can ground him. Wants whatever can sink into him and sink deeper into him— 

He comes before he's really ready to, left hand pumping while his right rests against the cuirass, eating the shadow of vibration from BOB's core. 

Jesse feels like he's going to pass out, and he feels… too big for his body. Too small for the life he's lived. Too sensitized to every get off again. 

"Too much now," Jesse manages. Optical apertures flaring as he studies Jesse's face, BOB nods in acquiescence. 

For all that it took to get him open, BOB pulls out of Jesse just one leisurely and continuous slide. Even covered in lube, spit, come, and sweat, BOB nonchalantly manhandles Jesse some more, bringing Jesse to lay on his bed in the seat BOB vacates for him. He doesn't tuck Jesse in (at least, not yet), but he makes sure Jesse's head is on a pillow. 

"What a gentleman," Jesse says, with a small smile. 

BOB busies himself with checking over Jesse for any bruises or tenderness—of course there's none. Satisfied, BOB collects the speculum, USB cord, and lube bottle, and he turns away from Jesse. Or, tries to—Jesse touches his wrist, soft but insistent. Instinctual. 

BOB doesn't pull away, but he does sign with his free hand. «C. L. E. A. N. I. N. G.» Which Jesse guessed but… that's not the issue. 

Jesse shouldn't push things. He should enjoy his postcoitial in peace. But… 

"I… I know we don't… but… Kiss me?"

BOB is standing next to the bed, hunched over. Huge and familiar and alien. His green lights swim in Jesse's vision. Jesse's only exhaustion and tears blur their edges, because BOB himself doesn't move. He stares at Jesse with an empty (not empty… that's not fair…) stare. It's long enough of a silence between them that Jesse realizes BOB won't act. He is going to leave Jesse high and dry and this is what Jesse gets for pushing always pushing always stuck in his head always— 

Jesse was wrong.

When Jesse hears BOB's hunkering movement, it's not to turn away. He delicately leans down and BOB taps at Jesse's chin, drawing his face into position. BOB aims his mouth facsimile over Jesse's mouth. The exoshell is smooth there, cool and lovely and unmoving. Silky and perfect against Jesse's lips. Jesse knows BOB isn't getting the same thing out of this as he is… can't feel it… but… as Jesse licks the seam between mustache and mouth, he admits: maybe he's not giving enough credit to BOB.

Eventually, BOB pulls away and… boops Jesse's nose. BOB gives a little nod. 

Jesse smiles wide like a dork, grateful and stunned and waiting for the next time he indulges BOB and… BOB… BOB indulging him too. He sinks into the mattress, listening to BOB's clanging as he goes back to tidying up.


End file.
